


The Witcher - End of the World

by Small Fortunes (SmallFortunes)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28130493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallFortunes/pseuds/Small%20Fortunes
Summary: Forever on The Witcher's Path, Geralt of Rivia journeys across The Continent bound for the great Western kingdom of Cidarus. Onward he travels the endless wilderness;  through the breathtaking mountainside and seemingly endless valley. Beset by the majesty of the deep forest, he becomes unwillingly ensnared by ancient arcane magic. Yonder, lies the great Gate of Abnok and the vast, haunted city beyond - Yune: The End of the World.Seduced by its mindless pull, Geralt finds himself dangerously unprepared for the tragedy that awaits. Alone, tormented and hopelessly lost;  the crushing power that resonates the land starts to slowly strip the Witcher of his reason.A chance encounter by the hand of Destiny thrusts the White Wolf deep within the ancient forest. There resides a crumbling temple to an eerie, forgotten God...
Kudos: 2





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> The Witcher: End of the World is independently published as a not-for-profit fan-based digital e-book. The Witcher characters and locations are the intellectual property of original author Andrzej Sapkowski. Copyright infringement is not intended.  
> Original characters, locations and concepts remain the intellectual property of Small Fortunes Independent Publishing. This short story is produced for entertainment purposes only.  
> Small Fortunes Independent Publishing would like to thank Andrzej Sapkowski, CD Projekt RED and Netflix.  
> Questions and Comments: E-Mail: spidercraft@gmail.com

* * *

For Elizabeth and Champagne

_You are the catalysts of my conduit moment in inspiration. You are blessed and loved._

For anyone who has ever loved and lost anything

Never lose hope even when the path is unclear. You will find the way.

* * *

He'd been travelling for days, the white wolf. The Witcher named Geralt of Rivia.

He and his great horse.

Sturdy mare, chestnut coat with a white diamond on her forehead that extended down the length of her gentle snout.

It could have been weeks.

Maybe months had passed since they came upon the valley. It seemed to go on and on and on without end. It was too easy to lose track of time and allow one day to roll seamlessly into another here in the hands of the wilderness.

Roach was a fine mare, she listened to her master and his firm handling of her reigns as he rode her along the forest edge. There was no road or well-travelled path to speak of. Simply planes of summer grass perforated by great boulders of broken granite rock and shale that appeared as though they had come to rest from a great fall. Together, horse and rider picked and rambled their way along the base of a mountain range that was obscured from view by a hundred thousand trees whose branches reached up and out into the skies, often blocking out the light of day, they were so dense in their vapid growth.

The temperature would often drop beneath the endless foliage so as the warmth of the sun was blotted out and it appeared sometimes that nothing but darkness and cold would go on forever. He watched his horses' breath blow in great white plumes from her panting mouth and shifting nostrils, thinking to himself that she looked like a dragon with every breath and would not have been surprised if she breathed fire then and there.

A fanciful wish. He was just that cold.

This cursed place.

And he could not remember how he came to be here or what drove him forward.

There had been a stone gate some forty feet high and almost a hundred feet wide. Impossible to behold in its entirety lest you came to look upon it from a great distance. Surely not built by human hands. Every inch of stone seemed to be scrawled by an inscription of runes or letters. A continuous and beautiful pattern of flow and structure that covered the stone's surface. As if the gods themselves had reached down with a great quill and patterned the stone gate with these markings whose language either dead or forgotten were not within his possession of knowledge.

But power lived here.

A power, unlike anything he had felt before in his great travels across the Continent.

And it drew him.

With an invisible hand that pulled at the very fibres of his core. Like the song of the ocean. A melody inside his head, half-forgotten poems or the last kiss of a lover. The rush of fire in his veins. The frantic beating of his lusting heart.

This place drew him near.

Through that great stone gate, he travelled on horseback. Roach felt it too. The power of the earth as it shifted under her hooves and seemed to suck her in with promises of wild, free planes and stallions she might meet and caress with her warm nose.

Just up ahead.

They had to keep going.

Just up ahead.

Through this valley beyond the stone gate.

Her master would curse. Growling under his breath, his weight dislodged easily from her back, leading her reigns, he walked beside her.

And it felt like an age.

It may have been days. Or weeks. Or months that they travelled.

Alone. Ever so alone.

Nothing made sense anymore since they had entered the stone gate.

The days and nights rolled into one another so as their passage seemed impossible to track. This thought reoccurred to him for every time he saw the sunrise and set into the horizon in hues of violet, pink and blue.

And there were no monsters here. At least, none he had encountered yet.

Unbelievable.

The magic in the air was tangible. The heat through the days shimmered, smouldering like the height of summer so as Geralt stripped himself naked from the waist up and even then sweated bullets that clung under his hair and behind his knees. Roach lathered from the mouth, panting as she walked beside him. The heat streaming off her body rose into the humid air like veils of steam.

 _'Poor girl,'_ he thought to himself, petting her wet hide.

In the night, the temperatures dropped so suddenly his teeth chattered in his mouth. He blanketed Roach and piled on every shirt, tunic and armour plate he possessed just to stay warm. Nothing helped.

The cold cut through the leather and steel of his garb and worked its way into the marrow of his bones.

On and on and on this went. Days and nights and days and nights. Without end.

This cursed place would be the end of him.

The end of them both.

Roach stumbled badly more than once, screaming out with such a cutting shriek that the birds took to the air in their droves. The flapping of a hundred wings. He looked up, squinting to follow the sound but saw nothing.

Where were they all?

Where was ... _anyone_?

There were no monsters to attack, hunt and kill.

No animals or beasts though their tracks were plenty and always there was the scuttling and bolting of something just out of his peripheral vision. He'd search the distance with sharp eyes following tracks to nothing at all.

The temperatures soared and plunged without warning, reason or rhyme.

The cascade of a waterfall or a river up ahead gave him some sort of direction. It had been days since last he saw the sun or stars to guide them. So they followed the sound of flowing water. Something turning and shifting in the undergrowth.

But nothing made sense here.

Nothing.... since he entered that gate.

Would he die here at last? In this endless valley? Alone.

Just he and his horse?

There were worse ways to die, he supposed.

Little things changed at first.

His memory began to fail him. He could not remember now the sound of his own voice and spoke aloud to Roach just to hear the mare respond with her tired whinnies.

They ate together, what little provisions he had with him. Some days he traversed from his campsite on foot in hopes of snaring some animal for his meal. Again, he followed tracks and lay in wait with the patience of a monk. But nothing fell for his snares.

They rested.

But Geralt... well... Sleep would not touch him.

He would lay on his blankets looking up into the canopy of trees to the blackness beyond. Listening. The hoots and calls of wild nocturnal birds in the distance. Their eerie, eldritch songs a mystery. And there would be mournful howls in the night. Some animal crying out in guttural desperation. Chilling shrieks that jolted him from his earthen bed.

He wanted to scream her name, convinced she had called to him in the darkness. Who? His mother, his lover?

Solitude did this to him.

First, he lost his voice.

Then, slowly... he began to lose his mind.

And he could not remember when last sleep graced him.

His eyes burned like sand had been thrust beneath the lids and a thousand tiny blades were sawing into their tender flesh.

Tears came unbidden. Silent, they rolled across his waterline and fell away as they reached his ear. He did not stir again that night.

But lay on the hard, heat scorched earth of the valley, tormented by visions and scents and sounds that seemed so profane and obscure.

Perhaps he dreamt it all. Perhaps he had died in the valley and this seemingly eternal wandering was his punishment. Perhaps this was the plane between life and death and he would walk on forever, alone, day and night, aimless. Longing for an end that would not come.

_No!_

It was the magic of the place, it had to be. He told himself this over and over like a self-prophesising manta. If he believed it, it would be true.

He turned over, looking up at his horses' legs through the hazy gold light of his campfire. He froze.

For there, he saw a great, slender black leg.... then another and another and another and another came into view. Polished like obsidian. Huge bulbous body. Black as pitch ink and eight blood-red eyes. Unblinking. Mandibles curved like Eastern blades, fangs.... like daggers. The great creature stalked directly under Roach's legs. The horse, exhausted, bowed her head in death-like sleep unaware of the danger that crawled beneath her.

Geralt tensed. His amber eyes wide as twin suns. On instinct, the hunting knife at his boot found his right hand and he bounded over the fire. His aim true.... he struck the black spider beast.... Or he could have sworn he did.

A scream so sharp, so anguished rose through the air and left him winded.

The creature was gone like smoke in the night and Roach reared, neighing in panic. Her great eyes rolling back into her head.

"Woah! Woah, Roach! Steady!" He called, taking hold her reigns and pulling his mare's head down to his own.

"Shhhhhh! Quiet girl.... quiet." He soothed.

Nervous, the mare pawed the ground, unsure what the commotion was about that pulled her from her slumber. But her master said there was nothing to fear.

She could not understand him these days. He often woke her now, sharp things in his hands, cutting at the air, crazed and striking at things she could not see or smell or sense or hear.

Trust was getting harder to instil in her master's logic. Why did he panic her so?

She snorted angrily and pulled her nose from his frantic face, sensing his agitation and coming madness.

They had to keep moving through this valley. That was all she knew. And she would carry her master there even if it cost her dying breath.

Geralt came to his knees before her. Searching... positive. He did see the black beast.... didn't he?

Oh gods.... he _was_ losing his mind.


	2. II.

The dawn was breaking across the horizon.

Scatter of bird song. The shift in temperature. His gut eating its self from within. He'd spent yet another sleepless, tormented night shivering by the dying embers of his fire. Haunted by the vision of the arachnid beast he had tried to save his steed from. His blade coming down to empty air.

He gathered his belongings, few that he had. There was nothing to breakfast on. Save for the last reserves of water he had in his canteen. He'd drunk the last of the wine from his oilskin some time ago and wished he could find peace in being drunk.

No peace came.

And on this day.... nor did the sun.

The ground trembled at his feet as the crack of rolling thunder shook the earth. Grey as steel the skies did turn. Though he could not see them clearly for the forest canopy was so dense. But he felt it come. He could taste it. The rain.

It poured down upon him and his battered horse. Onward they trudged, through the undergrowth and out into a clearing. Back into the mouth of the valley.

The rain lashed at his face. Cutting at his eyes. These tears of god flowed without end.

Up ahead.... in the mist.... he saw it.

At first just one. He shielded his eyes with his hand to block the harsh striking of the rain.

A string of coloured flags, blowing in the bluster of the storm. And then.... he noticed. There was not just one sting but many. Dozens in fact. Each thick, woven rope shared an endless line of square coloured flags strung together like ribbons of bunting that decorated the streets at a town fair. They seemed suspended in perfect peaks from the trees to a stone bridge that stretched on into the distance and obscured a mist-covered building of indefinable shape and size. The first he had laid eyes on since he and his mare had come to this accursed place.

At last!

Something that was no longer raw nature in its wild majesty. Something man-made.

He mounted Roach and they rode hard. Tearing up the earth beneath her hooves. A definite path ahead at last. His knuckles white as they gripped the reigns. He made for the stone bridge and its thousand coloured flags in the mouth of the storm. Lighting ripped through the skies. The rain was heavy now. Sheeting down like plates of glass. Incredibly cold and cutting through the fabric of his armour and clothes. It's pouring was making staying seated in the saddle slippery and impossible. He stood in the stirrups instead, snapping the reigns as Roach tore a furious pace on sheer, basic instinct toward the bridge.

It seemed to take hours. And the storm did not let up.

Though they made it at last. Hooves clattered on stone, he steadied the mare, pulling back harshly to slow her frantic bolt to a canter. She was limping badly by the time he dismounted. He petted her steaming muzzle and checked her legs. What he saw then sank a stone in his gut. There... blood flowed freely from a gash above her rear right hoof.

"Ooooh, _fuck_." Geralt bit out mournfully. He'd ridden her his last it seemed. A lame horse was not equal to distance travel and without a town or stable in sight for what, four hundred miles or more.... God help him. He didn't have the gut to put the mare down before she bucked herself broken.

"Come on old girl.... Just a little further." He ground out. The strength dying in his throat. He walked her. His only companion, through the rain... Along the stone bridge. To the sound of earth-shaking thunder.

Up ahead, the coloured flags flapped in the sodden wind and linked their adjoining ropes to a jade coloured roof that arched like a spire into the gray skies.

Geralt of Rivia had come at long last to a great sprawling temple in the midst of the endless valley.

Roach whinnied sadly, nodding her great head and puffing in pain as she walked, limping beside her broken down and exhausted master. Every stride she felt more uncertain. Pain and hunger were part of her daily existence out on the open roads. She wanted a dry, warm stable and a blanket that wasn't wet. She hated the bit in her mouth and the weight of the saddle and packs at her flanks. She was hurt, she understood this. A stinging in her hind leg was sending jolts of white-hot pain shooting up along her tired back. At least the ground was easier to walk on now. These manmade roads were hard on her hooves and she'd not been shoed in recent memory.

So tired.

So very, very tired.

But, her master said a little further. And there was a sacred place up ahead. Maybe they had some oats and apples for her churning belly? Maybe some fresh water aside from what the sky poured over her sodden ears and stinging eyes. It was getting harder to walk.

Just a little further.

Perhaps she could lie down when they got there.

Perhaps she could lie down.... and never rise again.


	3. III.

The temple gates were open. Colossal, intricate structures carved from red painted timbers to look like budding flowers and wild birds. Was this an Elven valley? It didn't matter. Geralt walked on, murmuring gentle encouragements to his mare. There were no sentries at this gate.

Was it abandoned, this great sprawling sanctuary?

"Hello?!" He called out into the stillness. His heart hammering in his chest and the sound of pounding rain drowning out all others except the aching in his heart.

What would he do without her? She'd carried him so far.

"HELLO?! IS ANYBODY THERE?!" He bellowed. Cursing under his breath.

"Please! I need help!" He cried, his voice ricocheting about the empty hall. There was no alter to speak of, no icon of a god. No furnishings, no rugs. The temple had long since been stripped bare. Nothing left in this great empty room save for a single stone carved throne that sat cold, empty and forgotten on its uneven and overgrown flagstone dais.

If this was once a temple, its worshipers had long since abandoned it to the wild. The roots of gargantuan trees had curled through the windows and grasses reclaimed the broken flagstone floors. Nothing here but nature. And she had come to take it back.

Geralt of Rivia wept then.

They had travelled this forsaken valley for days and nights on end and he could no longer remember why or what for. His heart was a constant, desperate ache. A hunger that knew no suffice. He clung to his mare's neck, burying his ragged face in her wet fur, breathing in her scent and heat. Unwilling. Unable to let go. Hope ripped from him. Without food or provisions to stem Roach's bleeding, how would he save her?

**_Give me the reigns, Geralt of Rivia._ **

Came the voice then.

Low and gentle. A register that confused the listener, neither male nor female. He looked up, startled. His tawny eyes burned. Lighting tore the skies outside the temple walls and there... like an after shadow, it stood.

He thought it was a bird. Though his sight grew dim and wavered in the shadows after the lightning flash. A slender long neck and a razor-sharp beak. Eyes white like the first snow of winter and wings, vast, outstretched and casting their shadows overall with impossible reach into the furthest corners of the temple’s empty hall. 

And then it faded with a rolling smash of distant thunder. The lightning shimmered again and there before him, an after image of a dream… Stood a woman. Hair black as the endless mountain night and a robe of deepest emerald green cascaded like water down her form and pooled along the floor so it appeared to be one with the grass underfoot. She reached out, extending a human hand with fingers a fraction longer than natural, palm turned upright to the sky and fingers curled slightly. Waiting and patient as though the passage of time and space around them was merely a vessel of consciousness and nothing more.

He did not know what compelled him. He had no voice left with which he could question. And so he handed over his horses' reigns laying them against the woman’s open palm. His eyes, so heavy, closed for a moment. And when he opened them again, it felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his chest. From his very soul. This loss was now placed in hands greater than his own. 

**_You need not walk alone in this life._** She said.

The mare did not resist, but walked her failing weight comfortably behind the woman. Docile and obedient. Her purpose fulfilled. She would sleep soon.

“Roach is injured,” Geralt began brokenly, stumbling over his feet to follow his horses’ flank. 

**_She will be committed to everlasting peace on this plane. And grow whole and new in the next._** The woman said, not looking back, but walking the tired mare gently by her aged reigns.

“No...No! It’s just a gash. I can rest her, feed her. _Please_ , I need food and provisions for a few days…” His voice trailed as he almost tumbled against the uneven temple ground a second time.

“Where is this place?! Who the fuck are you?!” He raged then, his nerves unravelled, he bolted forward, reaching out to grab her arm. But the unimaginable happened.

His hand...

His hand seemed to pass through air. She was there. Real, tangible, as he stood and breathed but… He could not touch her. 

**_Holding and letting go are one and the same, Geralt of Rivia. Your horse has lived her time. You will stand as she passes._** The woman said.

And he was not certain it was a woman. That voice…So indistinct, neither male nor female spoke with a calmness and clarity that drowned out the beating storm. He knew it then. That the words were true. He’d known it for days. And when he’d lunged to plunge his dagger into the body of that beast, it disappeared like mist in the night. And he knew then as she knew now that he couldn’t hold her anymore. That he could hold nothing. And would hold nothing so long as he was here... In this valley of eternity. 

His feet became leaden beneath him. His very bowels seemed flushed with freezing water. The woman ascended the overgrown moss eaten dais on its broken stone stairs and sat upon the abandoned, cold throne. With her came Roach. One great, shaking hoof after the other. A trail of blackening blood darkened every footfall in the horses' wake.

The great chestnut mare puffed and neighed mournfully as she tumbled, head first onto the hard stone ground with a thud so galvanic, the earth its self shifted under her weight.

"ROACH!" Geralt bellowed, bolting across the distance and coming down hard to his knees beside the great animal as she hit the ground. His hands shook as he petted her head.

"Come on... _please_..." He pleaded, his voice breaking with the beating of his stammering heart. The mare lifted her head weakly, pressing her great nose into his face. The colour slowly draining from her russet eyes. He believed more than ever that he could hear her voice inside his head. And it sounded so relieved of her burden as she said,

_Let me rest, master._

What could he do?! There was no time to think, only act as the truth crushed him.

His horse was dying.

His hands moved on sheer basic memory of muscle as he unbuckled her saddle and ripped it free of her body, packs, blankets and all. His vision blurred dangerously as he unclasped her bridle and pulled free the worn leather reins, relieving her of the bit in her mouth that she spat out gratefully, casting them carelessly to the ground. No longer caring for the woman that sat on and watched over his suffering.

The mare panted unevenly now. Broken down, weak legs stilled their twitching at last. She was grateful as she lay there finally without her burdens. Her master came close.... she could smell him everywhere.

She heard him, like a prayer as he whispered a shuddering _thank you_.

The world grew lighter then.

She felt his shaking hands caress her noble head and was grateful for her good master.

Roach blinked slowly... the world stilled... She breathed no more.

Geralt of Rivia wept that day.


	4. IV.

The storm passed eventually.

And with it went the celestial body of clouds that had hung heavy and black on the horizon. He sat beside his tireless companion. His hand absently petting her cooling muzzle. Feeling the velvet pelt of her nose. No warm breath left her now. He'd long since closed her eyes and murmured a prayer he had heard given at the funeral pyre of a fallen warrior. 

His gentle horse was at peace after her final ride. What was left behind was merely the flesh of what once was and all that had been.

After the longest while, the birdsong startled him from his trance-like reverie. He turned to glance over his shoulder at the stone throne at his back. The woman in the emerald robe had gone. As though he had dreamed her.

He turned back to look out over the middle distance and felt a presence take form beside him. Serene acceptance. 

Emerald fabric. It features, indistinct and androgynous now that the temple's ruined towering roof let in the rays of the twilight sun. 

He opened his mouth to speak a question and a voice answered before the words left his lips.

**_The End of the World_** **.** It said. 

He realized then that he meant to ask again, where he had come. Where was he now?

Again he reached out to touch the form of the person beside him and again... elusive, like trying to catch the rays of the sun as they shone through a window.

It was just not possible.

In view.

In reach.

And yet so very, very far away. 

An apparition then. He reasoned. A ghost. A shade of something. Of someone. 

"Who are you?" He asked at last. Lowering his hand. The will to grab hold of the form beside him tumbling away like rocks over a cliff's edge. The still moments after death, surreal and weighing down the very air. 

This moment.

It felt as though he sat observing himself speaking from a distance and simultaneously inside his own mind. Like a dream where you could only watch the events unfold and do nothing to influence their journey. The presence in the emerald robes appeared somewhat masculine now. The jaw line sharp, the nose slightly broader than he had first imagined. It was not a woman at all. 

Its eyes... human and infinite, golden as the morning sun burned with a warmth and humility that caressed a chord in him he could not place. Surreal and celestial as the skies and their infinite expanse.

**_The Observer._** He answered at last.

And Geralt felt it to be true. He shook his head slowly. 

"The observer at the End of the World." He repeated. His hand had not left his horses' still head, though he could not bear to look upon her body beneath his fingers. 

He ached within. A beating, hollowness that would not give way. How wished to be free of it. And no sooner did the wish enter his mind than the apparition... the Observer spoke. 

**_Who do you think decided the birds are free?_ **

He felt it flowing between them. The passage of time as he shook his head. 

"I don't," he began quietly. Labouring to order his chaotic thoughts and turn them into simple words,

"I don't know." He finished at last. 

The Observer shifted slightly beside him. So subtle, so human and yet so distant, so as he came upon the feeling that every word and gesture was a re-enactment of a life watched, disconnected. From the outside. 

**_Had they no branches to rest their weary wings, they would regret their aimless freedom._ **

The Witcher considered this. 

Deeply and with punctuating clarity the words seemed to form a reflection of tranquillity that the acceptance of death brought with its finality. Stillness. Peace. 

**_Rest a while._** The Observer whispered. 

His eyes felt so heavy now. So drained of their tears and weary sight. Strength left his body almost entirely. He lay down then, beside his fallen companion and let the exhaustion crush him at last. 

Geralt of Rivia slept a dreamless sleep. A death perhaps. His soul removed of his body may well have travelled across the planes of space and time. 

There were no potions to be had here. No magic, complex and primal to lift him to a well of power reserved only for the disenchanted and monstrous. 

**_How far have you come?_** The Observer asked. 

**_How far will you go?_** It asked again. 

"I made a promise once," He answered. "That I would not... cast this life away without reason." 

**_There has never been reason._** The Observer answered. 

Wings flapped at a great distance. A shadow of an immense bird cast its figure along the temple floor. 

Geralt heard himself speaking.

"Where do the Gods go when there are none left to worship them, or tend their temple?" 

The Observer spread his hands and rose slowly, indicating the crumbling ruin around them. 

**_To Nature_** **.** It said.

 ** _Where We all return._** It said. 

**_And one day, It will take it back._ **

The Observer vanished, like a distant dream. 


	5. V.

Geralt woke some many hours later, stiff and sore and chilled to the bone. For in his sleep he had been clutching the dead mare's neck, cradling her head to his own. 

He rose unsteadily on his feet. Disorientated and slow-witted for the first time in recent memory. Around him, the ruined temple was quiet save for the sound of the distant flags billowing and snapping in the daylight breeze. 

There was nothing here. Just nature... raw and wild and pure... Time grew her. Time evolved her. And she set her hands through the temple of man and reclaimed it with her untamed beauty. 

He thought he saw a great bird out of the corner of his eye upon the throne. He turned to take its measure. To say something... But there was nothing there. Just the remains of a forgotten God. 

There were few journeys Geralt of Rivia did not complete since he came upon the path of the Witcher. He fumbled through his pack and drew from its depths the last vial in his possession. 

A deep indigo liquid that clung to the glass as he tipped it to the light. 

He looked back. 

One last time.

He said goodbye to his devoted mare's body. 

The potion drunk... the vile dropped and forgotten to become one with the earth that would reclaim it in time. 

Geralt gathered his fallen mare's possessions along with his own few and sought to leave the ruined temple by the stone bridge from whence he had come. 

He did not cast a backward glance to his lost companion for he had already emptied his heart of his goodbyes. He would grieve her loss as he had so many others in the past. One heavy footfall in front of the other. That was how he had traversed this world and how he would continue until he too grew weak and lame and could travel no more.

His gut churned and ate its self. The potion whose distilled ingredients were refined Rebis, Aether and Quebrith soaked through his insides, suffusing his blood with a faux endurance. To go on. To continue regardless. 

This was not a natural place. The magic of this valley distorted perceptions and stripped travellers of their reason, whatever the depth of the reserves they may possess were siphoned away. He felt so numb within. His consciousness reached out to recreate memories of friends he'd met, lovers he'd lost. Would Yennifer have survived this place?

He adjusted the saddle on his shoulder, its weight comforting if nothing more. Through the temple gates, he strode and out into the wilderness where the stone bridge awaited him.

One foot in front of the other. He would leave these ruins behind. He would leave this valley and its accursed suffering behind. Anywhere on the Continent would be better than here. Without a horse, he walked and walked alone. Knowing the true meaning of complete solitude.

His eyes never leaving the ground as his boots struck the stone underfoot.


	6. VI.

Out in the distance, at the mouth of the bridge in the late morning sun, a young boy with flaxen hair and amethyst eyes wearing robes of yellow and red was sweeping the stone with a coarse-haired broom. He'd been collecting the fallen leaves that gathered on the edges of the path, sweeping them off the ancient stairs. His work interrupted when he felt before heard the sound a beating heart that matched heavy footfalls. The boy cast his hand over his eyes to shield his vision from the beating sun and there, saw the dark stranger up ahead, overburdened with his belongings, lumbering along the length of the bridge. His hair as white as milk, his eyes downturned and lost in thought. He did not notice the boy and the boy did not call attention to himself until at last the stranger was in reasonable earshot. He leant his weight on his old broom, grateful of the reprieve. Travellers were rare in these parts and few ever took this bridge to the old temple willingly.

"Ahoy there, weary traveller! How are you on this fine day?" The boy called jovially, waving his hand. The traveller looked up at last, startled... surprised perhaps. As though he had not expected to meet anyone on his journey. He halted his rambling gait and ran amber eyes of feline quality along the lines of the young boy's face. He could not find the words with which to reply.

The boy smiled, wiping his forehead on his flowing robe sleeve before continuing. 

"You look tired, traveller. Few ever come to these parts without some great quest to fulfil. Are you lost?"

Geralt nodded slowly yes. 

"I wouldn't let it burden you," The boy replied, "we are all lost before we are found. So says the teachings of my Master. I myself have not travelled far past the temple grounds and would not be the best guide. But if you care to follow me, I will take you to Master Komyuu and he may see fit to provide you with safe haven to rest and regroup before you continue on your journey. The valley is wild and rarely traversed." 

Again Geralt nodded slowly. His tongue thick in his mouth. He laboured to form words.

"Where - is this land?" He managed at last. A low rumbling gravel from the base of his chest. 

The boy contemplated him, his expression even and untroubled as though the question was something often asked by the lost and dispossessed. He responded.

"Cyianan Reach, my traveller. You are forty miles south-east of Cidaris. Some call this wildland the _End of the World_. Eight full days ride will take you to the eastern ocean but there is nothing beyond the seas or so I'm told. Where have you come from?" He asked, excitement beginning to well in his eyes and then on second thought he added,

"Forgive me, I am Daris of Yune, apprentice to Master Tamiirus, Priest of Morigard;" here the boy reached out his hand palm up in greeting, "please, won't you come?"

Geralt found himself reaching out hesitantly to shake the boy's hand but stilled himself midway. Afraid. That perhaps the boy was an apparition too, another shade that he would not be able to grasp. He froze, fingers outstretched, he receded his hand. 

But the boy, Daris of Yune, reached out with his small fingers and firmly clasped Geralt's huge warm palm in greeting. The contact was real. And true. The boy was not an apparition after all. Not a shade or ghost. But flesh and blood; and as alive and warm as Geralt himself. Living and breathing and smiling. 

"What are you called?" The boy asked, looking up at the great man that towered over him and blotted out the late morning sun with his milk-white hair and amber, feline eyes.

"....Geralt of Rivia." The Witcher answered after a pause, his warm baritone deep and melodious. The boy shook his hand firmly before letting go and smiling with the contented warmth of true tenderness possessed only by a happy child.

"Come then, Geralt of Rivia. I will lead you to my Master's house, it is not far."


	7. VII.

And so it came to be, Geralt strode beside the young Daris of Yune and listened as the boy talked and lead him off the mouth of the bridge to a great rambling road lined densely with mammoth trees whose golden leaves rustled in the breeze. What magic haunted this place he could not know. For he could have sworn blindly that this road did not exist when he and Roach had first come upon the stone bridge to the temple. Now he caught himself looking back over his shoulder, possessed of the notion that nothing was as it seemed. He would not have flinched if Daris disappeared into the air the moment he looked back. But it was not to be so. 

"Where is your horse?" The boy asked at last, looking over the worn tack that Geralt carried over his shoulder. The question stung the Witcher out of his cyclic reverie. His horse. His precious horse. 

"Gone." He answered at last. Colder than he meant. The boy seemed to take his meaning and did not appear stung but pensive. He was quiet for a time and then said,

"Master Tamiirus may give you directions to Mistress Frieda Gara. She owns a stockyard in the village past the Fountain of Coy. Perhaps there you might find a new friend to share your travels with." Daris offered kindly, looking up at Geralt and noting the pommels of two great swords that glinted in the light at his back from within their scabbards. 

Daris grew wide-eyed in awe. He'd never seen such massive weapons and wondered at the strength of this stranger who could carry so much weight and walk on unhindered yet overburdened. He was all but bursting with questions. A hundred things he wanted to ask of the tall, dark stranger with milk-white hair. Even so, Daris held his tongue. He knew better than to pester the tired and worn down. Yune once housed a guild that trained Witcher boys to the contention of Queen Regent Calathandia and her Chapter of Mages. House of the White Serpent served Yune and beyond the city of Cidarus for almost two centuries. Even so, professional Witchers were a rarity to come by in this day and age. Daris had only ever met two others that took refuge with his Master. He was a younger boy then, but even so, it did not escape him that the men all shared the same drawn sadness about their eyes. Worn down and jaded from the world.

Before long they had cleared the road and came upon a great stone-walled village that spanned vastly from east to west. It's grand iron gates were thrown open and again no guards or sentries stood at their sides. Daris lead Geralt within and the sights that greeted him were magnificent and orderly. The streets were paved in clay-coloured flagstones and lined with cottages whose windows and doors were arched and often encumbered by rambling ivy and lilac flowers. Men and women of all ages and creeds went about the streets on their errands, bustling to and fro. Their robes were brightly coloured, hues of green and purple, deep blues and whites. Humble and without embellishment but affluent enough to suggest that they were not poor or destitute stock. Here passed a woman in a deep coffee coloured robe with a white veil upon her head, hefting a great mason jar on her shoulder. And there, a man pushed a timber wheelbarrow filled with fresh produce from a farm.

The further they walked, the denser the population became. A great bazaar up ahead heaved with merchants and patrons trading their wares. Fresh foods, fabrics, spices and copperware were bought and sold. A maid in sky blue garb and a linen pinafore whistled sharply to a large, shaggy white dog that herded a small flock of black and caramel coloured goats into a market pen. Whilst across the way, two boys sat at the street tables of a coffee house drinking steaming amber liquid in curved clear glasses, discussing rapidly some notation in a book they held between them.

Normality overwhelmed him. For ages he felt he had roamed in solitude to suddenly come again upon a village thriving and swelling with people set him defensively on edge. Daris was noticed every once and a while by a vendor or villager who waved at him and cast his tall, hulking friend a polite, yet non-comitial glance. 

_'Peculiar.'_

Geralt thought. For though his travels were far and wide he had not yet come upon a land whose people did not glare down at Witchers for their alchemical mutation and shunned them coldly with insults. Yet, these people... They did not seem to care. Too engrossed in their own travels for the day, they did not stare at him grimly or call him names.

Onwards he followed Daris through the winding and busy streets, buffeted occasionally as the paths narrowed sometimes allowing only two abreast. He kept his head bowed but absorbed the colours and sights and sounds of civilization as it surrounded him. The streets smelled of spices with vague hints of animal offal but were otherwise relatively clean and well-travelled. The city elders seemed to commit some great expense to civil planning and architecture. 

The buildings that made up residential houses and commercial shopfronts were plain and functional, but well maintained and geometrically beautiful. Hydrangeas of blue and purple grew in a riot of lush green leaves and lined the streets as they pulled away from the business district. 

Until at last, they came upon quieter streets with low walls lined in white sandstone.

"Master Tamiirus and I live in the Morigard Shrine up ahead. This is the village of Yune were I was born and raised all my fourteen years." Daris offered as he gestured out around him, proud of the opportunity to act as a guide.

Up ahead came into view a low, single-story shrine with a jade roof and arched, curving windows made from solid timber frames. At the wide, timber stairs of its entrance sat a man in pale robes. He had long chestnut coloured hair with thin streaks of silver gathered into a thick braid that hung over his shoulder. He smoked from a slender jade pipe. Beside him a book and glass cup sat forgotten. He appeared lost in contemplation until he heard his apprentice' happy greeting.

"Master Tamiirus! I've returned from the temple! And look, I've brought a friend!" Daris exclaimed. The man named Tamiirus put down his pipe and rose to his feet somewhat stiffly though he did not appear too advanced in years. 

"Hoo hoo! Daris, dear boy. You would befriend even the unwilling. What is the name of your companion this day?" Asked Tamiirus gently, his hazel eyes careworn but kind. 

Geralt introduced himself, briefly explaining his plight. 

"I am Geralt of Rivia. Witcher with tenure. Forgive my intrusion. Your boy met me on the bridge of the ruined temple. I'd been wondering the valley some indefinite time and lost my horse until he found and lead me to this village. Who knows how much longer I might have wandered alone or met my demise. I've no more provisions to keep me. He tells me I might seek refuge in your home."

Geralt fell silent then. These were more words spoken in moments than he'd uttered in months. 

To this, the long-haired priest nodded, puffing unhurriedly from his pipe. He cast his glance over his visitor from top to bottom. Geralt narrowed his eyes, feeling himself assessed like stock at a market. A feeling that was not uncommon of those that sought to take his measure. But more than this, the noticed then, a silverish shimmer that clouded the man's expanded pupils. The way they did not constrict in the sunlight. It occurred to him at once. Tamiirus was blind.

"Daris, go make Master Geralt and I another pot of tea. Then see to preparing a room for our guest and boiling some water on the hearth for his bath." The shrine master requested warmly. He smiled then, standing aside. His decision made. He welcomed the dark traveller through his door. 

"Yes, Master Tamiirus." The boy acquiesced, excusing himself with a bow of his head and taking his leave on quick and quiet footfalls, up the steps and out of sight.

"Our home is old and plain but the hearth is warm and a soft bed will always rival a sleeping blanket on the hard ground. Stay a while to recover your strength. When you are rested you might take inventory of your needs and I will set you on the path to gathering your provisions." Said Tamiirus as he folded his hands into the flowing sleeves of his pale, monastic robes.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Geralt answered allowing himself to be lead within the opened shrine doors.

"Daris tells me there is a stockyard where I might buy a steed." He offered following Tamiirus through the threshold to the airy shrine where a comfortable tea room furnished with low a timber table and plush seating cushions rested in the room's centre. The walls were hung with painted scrolls that depicted dancing cranes. On their backs stood a giant woman with a lotus flower where her heart should be. A face in serene repose, dressed in robes of emerald green. The sound of a single glass wind chime suspended from an open window set a melodious twinkling tone in the breeze. 

"Put down your burdens here, Geralt of Rivia and drink some tea. The road stays on travellers, it clings to their skin and haunts their eyes. Yours are tired and bare much pain. We'll soon find a new steed to carry you, but for now, take some rest." Tamiirus replied, inviting Geralt to get off his feet. Ominous, the Witcher thought, wondering at what magic was used by the priest to carry such conviction when he lacked his sight. Even so, he made no comment.

Putting down his tack, his rucksack and scabbards. He came down heavily on his hind with a guttural grunt of exhaustion and looked up into the shrine's rafter's noting the way in which the motes of dust danced in the light of the windows. Grateful for a roof over his head. Grateful that he would not have to temper himself against the arrows of strange eyes and foreign glances. Tamiirus, like Daris radiated warmth and easiness. His tone was musical and patient and his aura was kind and serine. No miasma of violence or malfeasance came from him. To his attuned senses, he felt no impression of magic either.

Daris soon bought them a copper tray of tea and with it a platter of cold meats, cheeses, fruits and fresh breads. Tamiirus insisted he eat, that it was long past the afternoon repast.

Geralt did not resist, but thanked him graciously and sought to eat ravenously. So long had it been since he had last sat at table so civilized and eaten from plates of copper. 

Tamiirus drank tea and smoked some aromatic herb in his long jade pipe that he lit from a brazier set in the corner of the warm room, occasionally picking at a grape. For a man deprived of sight, his actions were calculated, deliberate and without error.

Meanwhile, as he ate, Geralt found himself possessed of a new notion that prickled the far corners of his mind. Something like a half-forgotten dream. A feeling of fleeting recollection, like sand running through his fingers. He could not place the feeling, but it stung him deeply.

That somehow... somewhere... he had seen the face of this man who called himself Master Tamiirus before.

His gaze must have been intense as he ate, for Tamiirus lowered his pipe after a while with a smile and asked of his new companion,

"Care to share your troubled thoughts? Perhaps in giving them voice you might relieve their weight from your mind?" 

Gerald chewed slowly, exhaustion taking hold now that he had a moment of stillness. He swallowed with some effort and finally spoke softly.

"I was just thinking to myself, that I felt as though I recognize your face. I was wondering if we may have met at another time and place?" 

Tamiirus nodded quietly, puffing on his pipe in near pious contemplation.

"It is said, all roads lead us back to home in time." To this Geralt smirked bitterly, his eyes darkening somewhat.

"You do not agree?" Tamiirus asked pensively, his brow arching in question.

"Perhaps," Geralt replied, "only, the things I have seen and heard these past days have left me tired of hearing riddles." 

Tamiirus paused his puffing at this, the rings of pale smoke he blew, faded up into the rafters overhead.

"Such is your wish for plain speech. I am of the same mind at times." He said quietly, nodding in agreement.

"My vision has grown dim over the years but I too was thinking the same when I saw your face. That we had met some place and time before this. I feel as though I remember your eyes, for they are remarkable and not easily forgotten, Master Witcher." Here he paused a moment, lowering his pipe.

"That medallion you wear, School of the Wolf, if I am not mistaken." 

Geralt nodded sagely.

"As I live and breathe." He answered.

"Witchers are few and far between in this age. It is rare to see one return to these far western shores. Why have you come back?" Tamiirus asked.

The question threw Geralt. His eyes narrowed.

"...What do you mean, _come back_?" He replied. "I've no memory of ever being here."

"You passed the Gate of Abnok and its ancient enchantments designed to the confuse and bewilder even the sharpest mind. And yet, here you are. As you live and breathe." Master Tamiirus responded, mirroring Geralt's own words before falling silent again. Watching the Witcher's cat-like eyes as they shifted in the light, observing him with dissecting scrutiny.

Geralt broke the silence between them, setting down his bread and lowering his gaze.

"I was drawn here." He murmured at last. "My mind has been playing tricks on me. I cannot remember where I was going or why I had to get there. Only that I was to follow the sun as it set. I came upon a stone gate that overlooked a valley some few hundred miles west of Cidaris. I passed through... And here I am."

Tamiirus nodded to this confession drawing on his pipe. He gestured for Geralt to continue his meal and sought to speak slowly and quietly for the Witcher to hear.

"Welcome to Yune, my friend," he said at last, "for four centuries the greatest mages of the kingdom fortified the Gate of Abnok through which you traversed, and the hundred thousand acres of mountain and valley beyond with their ancient protective enchantment. The last great city to house a Keep that trained Witchers just like you. Preternatural beings set on The Path. Few strangers that come to Yune ever leave. Fewer still are those that leave and come back. Funny, the way Destiny drives us."

"Destiny..." Geralt echoed bitterly. He meant to ply insult but Tamiirus interrupted,

"Lead you to the Temple of Morigard. The last place on the Continent touched by the hand of the Gods."

The temple.

Ruins that now housed the soul of his fallen mare. His heart ached for her loss.

"Did you see her?" Tamiirus asked gently, drawing Geralt's attention to his face.

"What?" The Witcher asked reflexively. Instantly regretting his question.

"Morigard. The god of the temple. It is said that she appears to the witness first as a great crane and is neither male nor female but both at once. The anchor of destiny rests in her hands. She who is temperate and mild seeks to alleviant our living burdens and transform them within the light of her everlasting mercy. I was merely wondering if you saw her?"

Recollection haunted him. Geralt shook his head sadly. Weary of his painful reminiscences.

"No," he answered at last. "Death took my horse and left me with nothing but another bitter memory. Your god is as abandoned as the temple she haunts. There was no mercy to be found in those ruins."

The sound of gentle footfalls across the timber shrine floors announced Daris' return. He came to rest at his master's side and flashed their guest a warm smile.

"Forgive the intrusion, sirs. Master Tamiirus, I have done as you asked and prepared our guest a room and bath." Tamiirus smiled warmly at his apprentice before tapping out the ashes of his pipe into his empty teacup and rising to his feet slowly. If he had been offended by the Witcher's words he did not show it in his face.

"There is mercy to be had, even if you do not look for it." Said Tamiirus at last. The two men shared a glance and with it Geralt felt himself exposed before the hazel eyes of the shrine master. What he saw in that temple, he could give no voice to. An unspoken truth existed and he felt as though Tamiirus knew it in the face of his denial.

"Now, you must forgive me as I take my leave. Daris will be at your service. He will see to your comfort and come the morning, we will assist your needs. Rest easy tonight, Geralt of Rivia. No harm will come to you inside this old shrine."

The rustle of heavy fabric, the scent of lily and smoke in the air. Tamiirus squeezed his apprentice' shoulder and left the tea room a little darker for his absence.

"Come, sir." The boy in his yellow and red robes offered the tired Witcher his hand. "I've prepared you a bath and fresh clothes to sleep in. Your room is warm and dry and you can rest as long as you need. There's another storm coming on the horizon. Its best to stay indoors. Let the fury of the god's tears exhaust themselves before the night is through."

"Your god?" Geralt asked, conceding to take the boy's hand as he got to his feet.

"Ours," Daris answered. "One of the seven of heaven and earth, sky and stone. The Great Morigard, Goddess of Temperance is said to reside in the temple of Yune and look after the people of this great city."

"So I am told." Geralt replied, following the boy from the tea room to the open corridor whose windows revealed a darkening sky.

"The temple appears long abandoned, overrun by nature. I saw it with my own eyes." Said the Witcher plainly. But Daris shook his head no.

"Not abandoned, but certainly overrun. It was said that some two centuries prior a boy prince was turned out of the Witcher academy in the mountains when their alchemical mutations drove him mad. He escaped his masters and took the temple single-handedly by siege, killing the priestesses before taking his own life. Morigard appeared to him in the guise of a great crane, enfolding him in her wings whilst he lamented his sins as he died. It is said where his body fell at the foot of her throne, a great tree grew in its wake. So say the legends at least. From that day on, the temple has remained untouched, nature reclaimed her house. Those who enter may yet feel her mercy or see her shade. Some say they see a great crane in the shadows. Others, proclaim to hear her voice. An observer to the balance of life and death. Her temple stands as an immortal monolith and a reminder to the people of Yune that one day, nature will reclaim us all."

Here, the boy stopped as they came to a decorated timber door in the corridor. He opened it back and they were greeted by sweetly scented steam and the glow of two dozen candles. Within the room's centre rested a great copper bathtub. He gestured for Geralt to enter, fixing him with a radiant smile.

"Forgive me, friend. It has been a long time since I've spoken to someone other than Master Tamiirus. I worry I ramble, you must find my prattle very dull. Go, make yourself clean and then call for me. For as long as you reside with us, I will serve you tirelessly."

Geralt, for all his exhaustion, could not help but smile. He clasped the boy's shoulder tenderly, the weight of his grip setting him momentarily off-balance.

"You make a fine apprentice," The Witcher offered before entering the steaming room and shutting the door behind him.

That night Geralt slept to the sound of pouring rain as it struck the shrine's clay tiled roof.

The storm was restless, raking her hands across the city, overflowing her gutters and soaking her walls. The citizens of Yune shut their windows and doors tight against her fury. Mothers told their children the tale of god's tears for her fallen priestesses. The sins of the Witcher boy-prince and the haunted ruins of the temple where the merciful god resided.

Twice the roll of distant thunderclaps startled Geralt from his bed. He lay there, clean and warm yet roiling in sorrow. His dreams disturbed by the loss of his steed. His mind threw up visions of her body as it rested forevermore at the foot of the goddess' throne where nature would reclaim her in time. His eyes grew heavy and again he fell to a fitful sleep where he dreamed of a woman in green robes that cast the shadow of a great white crane.


	8. VIII.

Come morning, Geralt woke to the smell of cooked meats and fresh breads. Daris appeared in his room and set a tray down at the table by the window, inviting him to eat and drink as he desired. In the night, the boy had seen to washing and drying Geralt's clothes by the hearth. Now they were freshly folded and waited on a chair beside the grate for him to change. The boy had even gone so far as to scrub the soil from his boots and oiled the leather anew.

"Your kindness humbles me, I thank you deeply, Daris of Yune. Why you would help a stranger to such lengths... It shows it is good in this cold world still."

The boy refilled his teacup and replied,

"I am told the path of the Witcher is hard. When I came upon you on the stone bridge outside the temple, you carried the eyes of a man who had died long ago. Confused and tormented by the world around him. We shrine masters are taught the way of mercy to all living beings regardless of station or rank. That even the shunned might find refuge in our simple home. I think the greatest lesson Master Tamiirus ever imparted on me was that in the company of one another we find true shelter from the storm. We needn't spend time tending a rotting temple or decorating an altar for the ghost of a god. We believe that goodness and mercy begin in the heart of man, through gesture and deed. And that Destiny will measure us all in time."


	9. IX.

There is majesty in the morning after a great storm.

Geralt clutched the copper mug in his hands, grateful of its warmth. The comforting scent of aromatic tea filled his nostrils and fogged the glass of his window as he stood looking out into the garden beyond his rooms. A miasma of rolling fog blanketed the ground in its white mist. It was cold outside, but Daris, rugged up in rough woollen overcoat atop his robes, attended his monastic rituals. The boy took a cloth and bucket and gently wiped the soil from a grand brass statue of Morigard in the form of a goddess with the wings of a crane. She rested inside a regal stone alcove decorated in lotus flowers and burned-out candles. An altar to the Goddess of Temperance for which this shrine was dedicated to.

If the cold bothered him, he did not show it. Rather, he worked his bare fingers in the chill morning air patiently attending every crevice and curve so it was free of dust and grime. He scraped the old wax drippings from the stone sconces and then set to work sweeping the winding path to the alcove free of fallen leaves.

All the while Geralt looked on, lost in thought. The boy's words at breakfast stayed with him.

He drank the last of the steaming tea and dressed for the day.

There was much to do.

His potion stocks and travel provisions had been depleted. He'd need a tailor and a blacksmith to repair his armour and furnish him with new clothes. He'd lost his whetstone some ago and his swords needed sharpening. His boots would need resoling along with a dozen other details. Yune was a fine city, but every hour he spent within her walls, it became clear that his objective was not here. He cursed himself internally; for he could not clarify what his objective even was. He would need to return to the road soon. Set back on the Path to make his fortunes before the winter set in and made travel across the Continent perilous and unprofitable.

There was nothing for it; he would need another horse.

Though the very thought tormented him. Visions of Roach as she lay on the temple stairs... The voice of the Observer... It was more than he could bare.

For all his mighty strength and formidable endurance, within, he ached still.

He'd made a promise.

Been governed by the law of surprise.

And every waking moment he spent within the shrine walls it seemed the fog of the enchantment that had clouded his reason as he entered the Gate of Abnok was slowly siphoning away.

Perhaps he could stay on a little longer before returning to the wilderness. It was still early spring after all. He had coin enough to keep him though it would not last forever.

If only he could remember... What set him down this Path to begin with.

Come the eighth hour of the morning, Daris met him on the steps of the shrine. True to his word, the boy offered to guide the Witcher across the city so as he might gather his needs. Daris was easy company, quick-witted and fast of step. He apologised for his master's absence.

"Master Tamiirus rises early and spends much of his day in a refuge house teaching and attending displaced war children. He returns soon after sunset and gives a sermon to the villagers that visit our shine before settling to write his scriptures in the night. At least, that is what he says he does but in actual fact I've caught him drinking wine and smoking until the early hours of the morning. I tell him to go to bed, but he always tells me his dreams are less amusing than the waking world."

"He's not entirely wrong." Geralt replied, lifting the hood of his cloak over his pale hair.

The boy seemed alarmed and asked, "Did you not sleep well, Master Geralt? Is there something more we can do to provide you comfort?"

"No, I'm indebted to your kindness. You've done enough." The Witcher replied as they came upon an apothecary at last.

Their first stop of the day.

The days in Yune where industrious and civilized.

The citizens of the city lived and worked peacefully, co-existing within their sprawling walls free from the external ravages of war and peril. The more he spoke with Daris, the more he came to learn of the protective enchantment that shielded the city from outside threat and masked its existence from the rest of the Continent. That it's mind obscuring side effects, potent against humans, Witcher or otherwise, were designed by a league of mages with Elder blood in their veins. Yune had stood as a republic to the greater kingdoms for more than a millennia and appeared content to continue their diplomatic existence unhindered by the upheaval of conquest hungry kings. 

For four days, Daris accompanied the Witcher through Yune's diligent trade district, pointing out all the best merchants for food and sundries, alchemists, apothecaries, cobblers and blacksmiths. The boy was a wealth of knowledge which he imparted freely. Similarly, he was quick to apologize where his answers were deficient. Apologies Geralt would not accept. At fourteen years the boy was technically a man, living and working independent of his family, his dedication to colloquial and historical knowledge was a credit to his master's teachings. Even so, he was still a child.

His eyes grew wide and whimsical at the tales of Knights and Princesses. He begged Geralt to share his stories of the road and listened attentively without interruption, soaking in the words as though they were sacred fables. The Witcher censored himself for the boy's sake. Something in the purity of his lavender eyes charmed him. He was sheltered and tender-hearted, as it seemed all the people of Yune were behind their magical barrier that kept waylayers out. A gilded cage where the citizens grew content and complacent in their self-sufficiency.

Once in conversation, Geralt came to ask of the origins of Daris' parents. The boy grew pensive and pretended not to hear. Though delicate in his handling, Geralt saw the hesitation in the boy's eyes. He did not ask again.

There were days where Daris apologised, excusing himself from his duty as a guide so as he might attend his lessons in the shrine. Tamiirus had left at dawn to the refuge hospice but had not failed to provision the Witcher with a hand-drawn map of the roads from the shrine to the market bazaar. He'd circled two heavily frequented inns, a public library and a coffee house with a note that said these were the best places to people watch and gather information if he was so inclined. The food and ale was fresh and the patrons were a mixture of merchants and travellers that frequented the main roads between Yune and Cidaris. He would want for nothing if he stayed on and listened or enquired of the shop keeps should his information be lacking. He cautioned Geralt to not be alarmed if he noted armoured knights walking the streets, for they wore the emblem of Lady Calathandra of the Silver Fox, she who was crown regent to the throne of Yune and ruled the people with temperance and compassion. Her knights were said to be virtuous and fair. All this the Witcher considered.

The shrine master was not wrong in his admission. Geralt found himself lingering alone in tables removed of others. His back to a wall and a window nearby where he could take a midday meal and run an inventory of his gathered possessions. All while thinking to himself that Yune was as good as any a town to retire.

He kept mostly to himself, casting quick glances at passing faces. If his reputation proceeded him, it did not seem to reach the people of Yune. They looked upon him, indifferent of his pale hair and inhuman eyes. His guild and status seemed irrelevant here. He was not harassed nor commissioned. In fact, on more than one occasion during his travels about the city, the very opposite of harsh treatment befell him. Travellers gave him right of way on narrow footpaths with a nod of their heads and a non-committal smile. On another occasion, an elder man stood aside and held open a door, insisting he enter the threshold first.

All of these gestures of kindness he internalized, puzzled and wondering what it was that prompted such civility. Jaded as he had become in a life as long as his. Weary and on guard lest he grow lax. Was this also part of the city's enchantment? That the people would be docile and unthreatening?

Well, the sooner he filled his packs and left Yune behind the better he would feel. Or so he told himself. But reluctance and despondency found its way within his heart, filling the crevices with any excuse he could muster to stay on in the shrine just one more day.

He could become accustomed to clean sheets and warm hearth. To prepared meals and enchanting mantras.

He made a point of avoiding the farmers market, stables and stockyard.

A horse meant the open road.

A horse meant freedom to continue on the Witcher's Path.

But freedom could wait; just one more day.

Every evening he found himself invited to attend the sermons Master Tamiirus gave to a small procession of people in the yard before the statue of Morigard. He hesitated to attend but looked on from the window of his rooms. Bitterness rising in his blood like bile.

He had no patience for gods.

Yet, what he saw in the temple haunted him still.

There was no evil that he could recall, only a sense of serenity and acceptance. He could comprehend what drew a congregation to such peace.

So he lingered in the shadows, watching over the people as they rested on their knees, meditative and introspective within their private thoughts. The sounds of their unified chanting set a harmonious hum thrumming through the timber underfoot. And a sense of tranquillity followed, like watching fish slice the water of a clear stream. He need only reach in to pull one out but hesitated to disturb their unhindered passage.

Once the last patron had left the shrine and Daris had retired for the night, Geralt came upon Tamiirus seated by the arching window in the open corridor that looked out into the yard over the stone goddess.

The shrine master in his pale robes, puffed contemplatively from his slender jade pipe whilst gazing out at the moon and always greeted him with the fondness of a doting father.

"Hoo hoo, Master Witcher. Welcome back. Like a great white wolf you appear in my hall. I wonder, have you come to howl at the moon?"

To this, the Witcher smirked, shaking his head. Disarmed and disrobed of all but his rough spun nightshirt and cotton trousers, he appeared less imposing, more human than warrior. His tone low and melodious, he gave his confession.

"No. I couldn't sleep. Daris tells me this is the place where I might keep your company."

Tamiirus gestured the space on the window seat beside him.

"Come then, you can contemplate the moon with me if you don't mind the smoke."

And so this became their routine custom.

For six nights Geralt returned to the window seat every evening; his mind a whir of thoughts and memories following his days in the city. So as when he came to sit with Tamiirus, it was to unburden himself.

He learned something different and new whilst he travelled the roads gathering his possessions.

The apothecary had sent him away with the explanation that the botany required for his list of potions were not held in his immediate inventory. He would send a missive to the alchemist in Cidaris by courier but it was two days ride from Yune and back. He would have to wait for fresh supplies. He was very sorry for the inconvenience of it, but he'd have to wait all the same. Geralt accepted this with a heavy sigh. The apothecary took his coin and promised he would send a squire to the shrine with his potions at no extra charge.

What choice did he have? He'd have to stay on, just one more day.

He shared the evening meal with Tamiirus and Daris before retiring to his rooms to bathe.

Often coming to watch over the sermons from his window. All the while, the sentiment of his past recognition of Tamiirus grew ever stronger.

On the thirteenth night, the Witcher came to join the shrine master as he smoked by in the glow of candlelight.

“It is good to see you again, Sir Witcher of Rivia. Come keep the company of an old priest by the light of the waning moon.”

The invitation was undeniable. Tamiirus did nothing but speak to him fondly throughout the night, soothing his restless soul.

“What is it about Yune that builds reluctance to leave its walls?” Geralt asked sagely as he took his seat by the shrine master’s side.

“Lack of horses in the stockyard?” Tamiirus offered with a smirk that drew a small smile from the Witcher’s lips. The old priest had a sense of humour.

Some nights they sat together in comfortable silence, each one lost in the mire of their own thoughts. Some nights they spoke for hours on end until the first song of the morning birds brought with it the dawn of a new day.

On this night Geralt grew pensive and spoke the words that had haunted him since he’d clasped eyes on the elder man.

"It was you, all those years ago. In Kaer Morhen. You had a different name then, they called you Yuramor for the black robes you wore. And you did not last more than three seasons before I saw you banished by the other masters of the School of the Wolf. You argued with them. And you disappeared into the night. Why did you leave us?” He asked at last. His voice barely above a whisper.

Tamiirus nodded slowly. He’d heard every word knowing in his heart that this moment was inevitable and that Destiny reunited people for reasons he would never know. He answered softly, setting down his pipe. A sadness in his eyes.

“It never sat right with me, the alchemy of the Witchers." He began,

"I was a young man once, the only son of a warrior clan with a depleted dynasty and the weight of my father’s hopes for eminence resting upon my shoulders. Misguided, I fell for their glory, fought their battles, bought their tales hook, line and sinker. I _appropriated_ their boys who showed aptitude for survival. Commissioned them to the hands of the masters who would rob them of their humanity for the glory of coin. I was no better than an abject slave trader dealing in the flesh and blood of the dispossessed and abandoned. Those that would not come were taken from their beds by force. Given enough rope, I hung myself in grief. I grew tired of their lectures. Tired of their destruction and tired of the guilt that racked my waking moments and tormented my nightmares with the cries of young boys dying.” The shrine master grew silent. His hazel eyes with their reflective pupils clouded with the weight of refused tears. He looked away.

To this, Geralt nodded. His feline eyes, predatory in the low light of the moon. Something within him trembled.

“They never spoke of your excommunication. Only told us you had abandoned the Path.”

“I changed it, for what I hoped would be a better purpose. I left behind more than my name the day the gates of Kaer Morhan were shut at my back. Destiny was not kind to me but I bare it no ill will. I decided to give my life in penance. No more would I rob children in the night of their resistance and fertility for a purpose that would not see the fall of man. There are many wrongs in this world, Geralt of Rivia... I chose to shield those that would otherwise fall prey to their manipulators. I'm sorry, I was not man enough to shield you too.”

Here, he reached within his robes and pulled free a thick silver chain. On it hung a medallion, the likeness of a wolf carved in relief. A match to the one Geralt wore around his own neck. He watched as Tamiirus tucked the chain back into his robe.

Now he understood why Daris did not speak of his parents.

Now he understood why Destiny had brought him to this city.

Now he had his reason, his purpose fulfilled. And it was greater in payment than any coin he could ever procure.

He rose silently, feeling the eyes of the old master at his back.

Come morning, he would buy a horse.


	10. X.

The valley air filled his lungs, rejuvenating his soul with its promise of a grand new day.

A map in his hand, his packs refilled with plentiful provisions and a new mare of auburn coloured coat and a white diamond on her forehead wore his saddle. When the mistress of the stockyard asked what he would call her, he did not hesitate.

"Her name will be Roach." The mare had whinnied and nodded her great head in agreement. He whispered to her gently, petting her soft muzzle. That if she wished to come with him, a great adventure would await outside of these stables. He stood back then, allowing the horse to make her own decision. Mistress Frieda opened back the stable gate and petted the horse's rump. Her conditions were plain. She would only release a horse to a new master if the animal walked toward them of their own free will.

"Well, go on sweetness," She said. "Will you go with your new master or stay here forever?"

The horse cast the stable mistress a glance then looked over the Witcher, sniffing the air with huge nostrils. Sensing, thinking, calculating. This stable had been her home since birth. The other foal were warm and friendly, but this man... he carried with him the scent of the wild. The promise of freedom. Of a hundred thousand miles under her hooves. His eyes were fierce but his heart was gentle. She nodded, making her decision plainly and walked directly toward her new master, leaving her stall behind. She sniffled at his face. His great hand came to pet her and she felt his calmness and love. She would go with him. And she would bear the name, Roach. For he said it with affection.

"Ahh, she likes you, master Witcher. She's made her choice. I'm content to relieve her to your care."

Coins exchanged hands.

She allowed herself to be bridled and blanketed and saddled. She did not rear or buck but waited patiently for her master to sit on her comfortably and give the commands she had learned from the stable mistress. Her shoes were fresh and aching to touch the road where new adventures would await them both.

Geralt of Rivia returned to the shrine that had been his home these past two weeks. There on the stairs, sat Master Tamiirus; Sentinel of Mercy, Priest of Yune. Envoy of the Great Morigard. He wore his pale, flowing robes and his greying chestnut hair in his customary braid. He smoked from his long, slender jade pipe and looked upon the Witcher as he advanced on horseback with a kindly smile.

Daris had been sweeping the stairs to the shrine but paused his work to wander close.

"Hoo hoo, you have a new companion to share your travels." Said Tamiirus looking up at both horse and rider from under heavy lashes.

"Yes, I've found her." He answered, petting her great neck. The mare nodded her head happily, shaking out her mane. Proud of her new master and the freedom he brought with him. Geralt dismounted smoothly and walked her forward to Daris whose awe-struck eyes had never seen so magnificent a horse.

"Ooh! She's a beauty!" The boy exclaimed breathlessly, reaching out slowly. The mare pushed her nose into his outstretched hand and allowed herself to be petted whilst her master looked on proudly.

"You've come to make your goodbyes, Geralt of Rivia." Said Tamiirus matter-of-factly.

"It is time." The Witcher replied. "This fortnight you have housed me, fed me, shown me kindness and patience. The time has come for me to repay my debt." Thus, he reached into his satchel and withdrew a leather purse, heavy with gold coin.

"A debt owed must be repaid."

Tamiirus came to his feet slowly, setting down his jade pipe and covered the Witcher's hands with his own. He spoke softly, looking up into the warrior's feline, amber eyes with a resolution and distant sadness.

"Save your coin, Sir Witcher. I've no doubt in mind that you will come upon great trials outside this city that will have need of gold to satisfy. A hundred times you have thanked us already and a hundred times I have welcomed your gratitude. Consider your debt fully paid. Take what you have learned with you. Let mercy always guide your judgement. Destiny will measure the rest."

With a final gentle caress, Daris came away from the Witcher's new horse and pulled from his pocket a small, green glass vial. A shimmering liquid within.

"Here, Master Geralt. Take this with you. It's the potion I promised. It will lift the veil of enchantment to the drinker and reveal the true path back through the Gate of Abnok. It will provide the clarity you seek and set you on the right road east to Cidaris." Said Daris, holding it aloft.

Geralt sighed deeply, his feline eyes reflected his gratitude. He thanked the boy and took the vial from his hand.

They shared their last goodbyes. Master and apprentice watched as Geralt remounted his mare and made way for the road that would lead out of Yune. 

A part of him would stay behind in that shrine. A part of him would live on in the temple.

The potion drunk, the vile returned to his pocket. The Gate of Abnok shimmered, radiating with resilient power.

He petted Roach's neck, the mare understood.

The Witcher began his ride through the endless valley.

He would return from the End of the World.


End file.
